


ghosting

by call_me_steve



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Case Fic, Child Death, Damian Wayne Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal, idk how to tag againnnn, original male character(s) for the sake of a villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_steve/pseuds/call_me_steve
Summary: Tim's got a case to be solved. It ends up in Damian's hands- though, as it seems, it's a lot more than just a handful.With Dick's voice in his ear, Damian sets off to solve it, once and for all.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 126





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ! i'm excited for this one ! please leave a comment telling me how you thought it was !

His name was Thomas. 

Thomas O'Reilly, a small town man who, after the death of his son and the crash of his business, moved into the city and bought himself a nice apartment closer to the heart of the city. He still frequented the little house that he raised his son in, often enough that people stopped asking if he were going to sell it, asking if he were going to maybe even rent it. They’d stopped asking about his wife, too. 

She’d disappeared long before their son had died, but the two of them had never gotten divorced. Sheila O’Reilly had run to the city years before Thomas had, and she’d never been heard from again. 

Their son, Thomas Jr., had been killed in what authorities called a break-in. He’d been bludgeoned to death with a metal baseball bat, supposedly by some crook who broke into their house in the dead of the night. He’d been nearing nine at the time, bright eyed and brilliant for his age. He’d have gone places, if his life hadn’t been cut short by some petty thief. 

The evidence, however, towards the break in and the murder didn’t add up.

They’d never caught the thief, but since there had been no cameras in the house, the cops had no reason to ever think that O’Reilly would have been lying to them. Not with the broken window, not with the jewelry that Sheila left behind missing, and not with the way that O’Reilly swore his parental love like it was worth more than the hundred dollar bill hidden in his sock. 

People turned a blind eye on the story once O’Reilly made his way into the city. It just became another story on the front page of the newspaper, lost to the times and hidden away in the archives. 

And, on a dare, that newspaper story had been pulled out of the archives and into the daylight once again, to be completely reviewed. Only then did someone find out that something was _wrong_ with the evidence, with the conclusion, with the story. 

“O’Reilly killed his son,” Tim Drake says, one cold October morning, just a week before Halloween. He slaps down a manilla folder onto the kitchen counter, startling Dick Grayson, who’d been staring listlessly down at his soggy bowl of cereal. “Fifteen years ago, on the 22nd of October- so, nearly fifteen years on the _dot-_ Thomas O’Reilly’s son, Thomas Junior, was killed with a metal baseball bat in the attic of their three story house in the country. They said that it was break-in gone wrong and the murderer had gotten away, but the authorities were wrong. 

“Really, the break-in was fabricated by O’Reilly because he’d accidentally gone to far when he was busy beating his child,” Tim continues, “ultimately ending with the death of Thomas Junior and influencing O’Reilly to move into the same city in which his wife, Sheila, was last seen. All I need to prove it is a little bit of evidence from the country house and I know that I can _prove it._ I can throw this man behind bars for good!” 

Slowly, Dick brings his spoon up to his lips and slurps at the milk without eating the cereal. “Did Jason dare you to find another obscure news report and prove their ruling wrong again?” he asks, in one low breath. Tim nods, eyes bright, and Dick sighs. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

“What’s today?” Tim asks. 

Again, Dick sighs. “You need to sleep Tim,” he says. “Once you’re well rested you can think clearly. Don’t you remember what happened last time you did this without sleep?” 

Yes, in fact, Tim _does_ remember. Jason had dared him to find an obscure controversial case, which Tim had. He’d attempted to prove it wrong, going on a near four day run of no sleep, going on his fifth cup of coffee so far that day. Then, he’d ran up to Bruce- who was mid-case himself- and slapped down that manilla folder. 

“Look it over,” he’d said, all in a rush, bouncing around on his coffee high. His fingers twitched by his side, watching closely as Bruce picked up the folder. 

“The Pain case? They solved this years ago,” Bruce had commented. Still, he’d flipped through it, reading Tim’s evidence closely. His silence had Tim shaking, too impatient to wait for Bruce to thoroughly read through it. 

“So?” 

“Tim, this isn’t- The conclusion of the case was _right,_ Tim. How- How long has it been since you’ve slept?” 

Ah, the deja vu. It’s kind of a shame that Tim has a family that kind of gives a shit about his sleep schedule. Sure, he’s been pushed to the side a bunch of times, but- it’d be nice if he wasn’t always questioned on how long he’s been awake for. It’s not like he’s seeing things. Yet. Though, honestly, at this point, it might just be the amount of coffee he’s had. 

“I know I’m _right_ this time,” Tim says, to Dick. “The cops had been called on O’Reilly multiple times for violence by his wife Shelia when the two were still living together, so it’s plausible that he’d might’ve been abusive against his son. He’d never been thrown in jail, however, because people suspected that he was in cahoots _with_ the police force. Henceforth, is it really that much of a stretch to _assume_ he accidentally killed his son?” 

Dick sighs, a third and final time. He rests his head in the crook of his elbow, peering up at Tim. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?” 

“Not until I’m proven completely wrong. Since Bruce isn’t around to look over it, _that_ job lies with the _new_ Batman. That’s _you._ So, voila. Look over the files, tell me what you think after you see it, and then if you think it’s important enough to pursue. Which- by the way- it _is-_ ” 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Dick rushes out, cutting Tim off. “I’ll look it over on _one_ condition.” 

Tim leans forward, rocking on his heels. 

“You _sleep._ ” 

Immediately, Tim reels back, eyebrows creasing and face wrinkling up. “That doesn’t sound like a very fair trade-off,” he utters. “One’s going to benefit someone and the other’s _sleep._ ” 

“Don’t be like that, Tim,” Dick says, shoving a spoonful of his soggy cereal into his mouth. “I’ve got a lot going on right now, but I _promise_ I’ll look it over _once_ you take care of yourself. Once I don’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll fall face first during patrol tonight, I can add something else to my plate.” He shakes the file Tim gave him, before setting it in front of him. 

Tim bites down on his lip, worrying it between his teeth. That’s a really hard trade-off, it really is. But- He gets it. Dick’s trying to balance being a single dad- watching over both a teen who lacks self-preservation _and_ a child assassin who doesn’t know how to act civilized- with carrying Bruce’s legacy on his shoulders while still _grieving_ for his fallen father figure. Grief is a hard thing, and it makes it harder when you see your family fall apart around you. 

“Okay,” he says, softly. “I’ll go to sleep, but in case I crash hard, wake me up in time to get ready for patrol.” 

Dick’s shoulders fall, in complete relief. It’s just another weight Tim’s pulled from his shoulders. “I don’t suppose I could get you to skip patrol too, could I?” he tries. 

“Nope!” Tim replies, popping the ‘p’. “Where’s the demon?” 

At the word demon, Dick shoots Tim the _look._ It’s the same look he’s been trying to use for almost a month now. It’s kind of like disappointment, but Dick’s too afraid of actually pulling out the raw disappointment on Damian, so he doesn’t really pull it on Tim either. “He’s in his room. Can you bypass him and go to sleep without causing a problem, please?” 

“I wasn’t gonna _do_ anything,” Tim huffs. 

“Sure you weren’t.” Tim rolls his eyes and stalks towards the stairs, only pausing when Dick softly calls his name. He stops, hand on the doorway, looking back to the kitchen. “I’m here if you need to talk, Tim.” 

Tim turns, finally taking in the state his older brother’s in. His legs are folded up beneath him, clad in an old pair of sweatpants that _have_ to be Jason or Bruce’s- they’re baggy and long on him, and Dick normally prefers tight pants to that kid. There’s bags under his eyes, from long nights on the streets and even longer days trying to break through to a couple of rascal kids who need some time to heal. Tim’s hand tightens, his teeth stab his lip harder. Dick’s hair is a permanent mess- but instead of speaking to his good looks, it really only helps highlight the way he slumps, to the way he droops like a wilting flower. 

“I-” 

Dick shoots him a small, small smile- it only just reaches his eyes, a pale imitation of what it used to be. 

“I’m here for you, too,” Tim says. “I always am.” 

“Thank you, Tim,” Dick replies, without missing a beat. “Sleep well, okay?”

His hand drops to his side as he abandons the kitchen. “I’ll try,” he mumbles, to the too empty hall. 

He tries to quickly pass Damian’s room- only to find himself still before the door. Light spills from beneath the door, the soft clatter of something being moved reaching Tim’s ears. Tim doesn’t dare settle his hand on the doorknob- he doesn’t dare try to open the door. Him and Damian aren’t there yet. Their relationship is shaky at best and Tim’s not going to derail it by forcing his way into his younger- _brother’s_ \- life. 

Still, he can’t bring his feet to move. It’s just him, Damian and Dick in the penthouse. Alfred’s away, taking some well needed time of his own to grieve at Dick’s insistence. They’re all dealing with things in their own way. Dick’s doing his equivalent of wallowing without letting Tim and Damian know- though he’s kind of failing. Tim’s not sleeping and he’s not taking care of himself in the right ways. 

And- And Damian-

Tim doesn’t know how Damian grieves. 

He walks away from Damian’s door, and he falls asleep a few hours later.


	2. chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city is alive, the country side is not; the boys discuss ghosts and Dick worries.

Damian throws himself onto the next rooftop, hands scrambling for purchase on the ledge. Once he’s on his feet, he takes off for the next one, building up momentum so he can make it. The distance between the rooftops is one of the things Damian’s never _liked_ about Gotham. Despite how packed the city is, she’s known for her alley ways. They make the gaps between the buildings far enough to make things difficult for vigilantes like himself- who just so happen to be… ‘vertically _challenged’_ as Todd had put it once. 

(See also: short-stack, tatertot, fun sized.) 

He makes it to the next one anyway, spite carrying him far enough not to worry about it. He reaches down to his grapple as his feet drag him to the edge facing the street, the gun dangling from his belt loosely enough to slap into his leg and irritate him. Below him, his mark crosses the street hurriedly, taking a sharp right on his walk. (Father, had he been around, probably would’ve frowned at the word _mark,_ something like that rings of an assassin’s tongue- maybe a gun-for-hire’s like Todd’s.) 

The distance between Damian and his target stays, forcing Damian to trail behind him just enough so that if he’s to be spotted, it’ll only look like Robin patrolling the streets, rather than anything suspicious. There’s no way that Damian’s going to allow himself to compromise this stupid mission this early on, after all. 

_Ready,_ he thinks, _aim-_

In a burst, he leaps from the rooftop, clicking the trigger of the grapple once his feet leave the ground. It zips out with a _hiss_ and digs into its own mark- a grove in one of the adjacent Gotham-esque gargoyles- pulling Damian away from the danger of the incoming street and onto one of the ledges of the building ahead of him. The claw comes loose as Damian swings past it. The moment his shoes thud against the stone, he’s up and running again, claw clicking into place for the next time he’ll need it. 

The ‘chase’- if one could call it that- continues for a good hour longer as Damian and his target edge closer to Gotham’s border. The buildings get sporadic and more run down as the minutes tick on. Damian’s losing ground fast. The fading sounds of the city roar in Damian’s ear, fueling another empty rush of adrenaline. 

Once his target stops, Damian skids to a halt, thankful to see that the man on the ground is hailing a taxi instead of continuing on foot. His hand shoots down to his belt to call his own ride to him, then up to his com. The soft hum of the empty channel cuts off. 

“Batman,” he calls, “do you copy?” 

Sure enough, Grayson’s voice carries through the channel, tone light and voice low. “I copy, Robin,” he says. “I’m just wrapping up Red Hood’s case. I think he’ll be pleased to know that there’s nothing sketchy going on with that gang yet. They’re just playing cards.” 

_Let’s hope that’s not the same for my case,_ Damian thinks. It’d be just like Drake to sick Damian with a faulty job for their case swap, though. And when paired with Grayson’s decision to withhold information from him, it doesn’t seem all that far-fetched. If that happens to be the case, Damian already knows he’ll have a bone to pick with that inferior maggot. How _dare_ he waste Damian’s _time-_

“O’Reilly’s heading out of town,” he reports. Down in the alley below him, his bike revves once, letting him know it’s time to move out. “I’m preparing to follow.” 

Quickly, Damian swings himself over the side of the building and onto his bike. Immediately, they both take off, the bike already pinpointing O’Reilly’s ride. As the bike swings around the corner, Damian reaches for his helmet. Once it’s secured, Damian grabs the handles tightly, keeping the bike steady. It’s mostly unneeded, but to him, it’s an added comfort. Driving with someone- something- else in control has always managed to shake him, unless it’s with Pennyworth. 

“Good,” he hears Grayson breathe.”I know you don’t like trading cases and all, but Tim and I” _-names,_ Damian reminds, in a sharp hiss- “are really grateful you’re helping him cross it off of his list.” 

Damian feels a scowl cross his face. He takes a sharp left, the entire bike shifting and leaning to make the turn. “Is that why I’m not allowed to know the case specifics?” he grouses, straightening himself out. His cape flutters in the wind behind him, pulling slightly at his neck. It’s nothing compared to the sting of his jab at Grayson, though, if Grayson’s choked, _that’s not-,_ is any indication. 

He’d been allowed the bare bones of the case- the target’s name, the location he was supposed to arrive at, the type of case he was working. He’d be collecting information on O’Reilly’s behavior over at some run down country house the man used to live in. The reason why had been omitted completely from the conversation. Had Damian had more time to prepare, he’d of done some research of his own on it, but that was the problem with the ‘batclan’s’ little case swaps. 

Now, he felt, it was too late to attempt to figure anything out. Besides, Grayson had his reasons for not telling Damian, he was sure. And, as ch as Damian hated to admit it, he trusted Grayson enough to not dig for answers. Well, _too_ much anyway. 

Grayson’s voice picks up again. “I’ll tell you more when you arrive to that house, okay?” he says. “Promise.” 

Damian swallows down his okay. Instead of replying, he loses himself in concentrating on the road before him, keeping a careful eye on the mark’s location. He won’t let himself become distracted by pointless conversations and guilt-tripping. 

The ride proves to be a long one. The next time that Grayson speaks up, his voice is no longer laced with guilt. The faint growl of the batmobile rings in Damian’s ears. “So,” he says, “I was reading-” 

Damian can’t help himself from interjecting with a, _“-a rare occurrence-”_

Grayson skillfully ignores Damian’s insult by mowing over it. Damian doesn’t actually catch much besides what he thinks to be _paranormal_ and _ghouls-_ (al Ghul, he thinks at first, but Grayson isn’t one to speak about the al Ghul’s unless it’s with Damian in person)- up until Grayson pauses for a breath. “They say that kids and animals- like, little kids and stuff, probably no older than you- are more apt to spot a ghost. Whenever Alfred stares into space- your cat, I mean- or whenever Titus barks at the wall- that could be a ghost, you know?” 

“Please,” Damian scoffs, easily, clicking his tongue for good measure, “ghosts aren’t real.” 

“Jason’s a ghost,” Grayson remarks. 

This time, Damian rolls his eyes. He could only just make out the red light of the taxi’s backlights up ahead of him. He clicks off his headlight just in case, casting the rest of the road into darkness, and silently prays that no deer attempts to off themselves. He reaches up to his helmet and clicks on his night vision so he doesn’t run himself off the road. “If anything,” he continues, “Todd would be a zombie.” 

“Fair point,” he says in response. “What makes you say that ghosts aren’t real anyway?” 

“What makes you say that ghosts are real?” 

Again, Grayson pauses. “You got me there, kiddo,” he says. “I mean, I guess I always just believed that once people die, they stick around for a little bit. It’s comforting to know that my parents might’ve been following me around when I first came to live with B, just to make sure I was okay. Or- that _B’s_ parent’s stuck around for those first couple years after their death.” 

“I think that’s preposterous,” Damian replies, shortly. “When you die, you die. There’s no ghosts about it. Your soul will leave your body and without it, it won’t be able to sustain itself. That’s the whole reason why it’s so important to get to the Lazarus Pit _before_ your soul fully breaks down-” 

“You know a lot about this whole soul thing, huh?” 

“I’d have too, Nightwing. I have to know the precise time frame it’ll take for a body to be unsavable. On top of that, I need to know how much time it’ll take for me to get myself to the pit before _I_ become unsavable.” 

He knows that he’s had close calls, he knows the reason his eyes nearly glow. The pit has taken him and tried it’s damnedest to turn him mad, but Damian and that fool, Todd, have both come out with pit madness and fought it to hell and back to just come back out normal. (As normal as they _can_ be. While Damian’s never truly _met_ death like Todd has, he’s ghosted her lines once or twice.)

“But- You’d agree that people’s souls… they stick around for a little bit, don’t they?” 

“Not for long.” His mother had once referenced _seven minutes_ as the time frame. “And their soul doesn’t leave their _body._ If ghosts _were-_ which they are _not-_ real, they’d be attached to _places,_ like the places they died. Not _people._ ” 

“Still,” Grayson hums, blatantly ignoring the fact that Damian just twisted his whole opinion on ghosts to be wrong. “Kinda like ghosts, isn’t it?” 

Damian’s face twists up in a scowl beneath his helmet. “ _Ghosts,_ ” he says, taking his eyes off the road to peer down at the red blip on his bike’s screen, “aren’t-” 

Three things happen at once. 

_Something_ jumps out in front of Damian’s bike, something big enough to send a chill down his spine, but small enough that he has enough time to formulate a semblance of a plan before he smacks into it. As he goes to steer around it, his handles sharply yank to the left, veering him straight off of the road and into the foliage on the side of it. It’s wheel snags on a sharp rock, throwing the bike forward. Damian goes flying from the bikes seat and slams onto the ground. It draws a sharp yell from his lips, sends him sprawling for air. 

He forces himself up and onto his feet, taking stock of his wounds. There’s nothing much there, besides bruises and a stray cut here and there. Overall, he’s fine. 

As he goes to pull his bike back onto the road, Grayson’s voice, sharp and alarmed breaks through. “ _Robin?_ Robin, what happened?” 

“Some animal surprised me and my bike turned off the road. I’m fine, I'll be back on O’Reilly’s trail momentarily,” he reports. “I’ve only got a handful of bruises, nothing that will impair the mission.” 

“Maybe you should tap out,” Grayson says. “The mission can wait-” 

“I’m _not_ tapping out,” Damian growls. He rights his bike and climbs back onto it. He bursts off to make up for lost time, flicking back on his headlights momentarily. “I’ll see you in a few days time, Grayson. Signing off.” 

“ _Dami-_ ” 

Damian snaps off his com. 

The only sound left is the sharp squealing of tires on asphalt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure the update schedule for this, but there's no promises. i try to do one every two weeks or so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian goes into the house, tries to apologize, and in the end, only makes everything worse.

Damian pulls up to the house under the cover of darkness, parking his bike a good distance from it. He turns back on his com as he swings himself off of it, hungry for answers. There’s a small wisp of guilt in his stomach, no doubt there Grayson’s own doing, about ignoring his Batman. It’s not like a accidental _crash_ was anything to get into a ditz about, though. Mother would have been outraged at him for letting his attention wane. Father too, possibly, but Damian never _had_ much time with _him,_ so he wouldn’t really know.

He’s not really ready to hear Grayson get mad at him for it, though. He hasn’t really gotten to _hear_ him mad. He doesn’t know how to ward off the anger, how to redirect it. He doesn’t know how Grayson reacts, when mad. Doesn’t know if he’ll curse Damian to pieces, or if his anger will be cold. 

Will he wait until Damian comes back to the penthouse, like he wanted him to do? Will he explode the moment Damian walks into the bunker, all fists and fury? What if he’s violent when enraged? What if-

What if he kicks Damian out? 

Damian curses himself. He shouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, shouldn’t have let himself be blindsided by a conversation, shouldn’t have let his eyes wander from the road. Had he not made that mistake, then Grayson would have no reason to be so mad at him. Grayson wouldn’t kick Damian out, he wouldn’t realize that Damian isn’t his responsibility to uphold, isn’t _his_ to take care of. 

Above all- no matter how much he won’t ever say it- he doesn’t want Grayson to realize that. He doesn’t want Grayson to send him back, even as much as he _loves_ his mother. (Did she ever love him? his mind asks, and Damian shuts it down again because that’s not what he wants and that’s not what he needs.) 

He should be _better._

So, he clicks on the com. “Batman?” he asks, testing the line. 

It takes a moment, but Grayson’s response is quick, something like _relieved_ at finally hearing back. Damian’s sure he’s mishearing it- there’s no _anger._ “Dames,” he breathes out. “Hey.” 

Damian grits his teeth. “Apologies,” he spits out. He’s glad Grayson can’t see him. There’s surely red blooming on his face. “I shouldn’t have turned off my coms.” 

“No,” Grayson agrees. He doesn’t sound _mad-_ but- there’s something else _there_ that Damian can’t _name._ Why isn’t Grayson getting _mad?_ He’s got to be waiting, biding his time until Damian just happens to slip up again, or until Damian comes back. “You shouldn’t have. But I’m glad you’re okay. Where are you right now?” 

“I’m at O’Reilly’s. Just outside of the house,” Damian reports. “I’m getting ready to sneak in. He should be asleep.” 

Grayson hums. “That’s good,” he says, and that is it. 

But it’s _not._

Something bubbles up in Damian’s chest. He can’t smoosh it down in time, before the words are spilling from his lips, an accusation that some scared _child_ would ask. Still, he asks, “ _Why aren’t you getting mad?_ ” 

Grayson… Grayson doesn’t respond right away. It sends a shiver down Damian’s spine when he doesn’t, but he does his best to push it down so he can stake out the area surrounding the house instead. It’s drab, old, falling apart at the seams. The windows all look shattered. 

Just as he’s rounding the corner, Grayson finally speaks. “Sorry,” he says, first. His voice has a hard edge. Did Damian push too hard? “It’s just- I’m going to be completely honest with you, Dames. Your question made me angry, sure, but not at you. I’m not _angry_ with you at all. I’m just- I _am_ disappointed that you wrote me off so quickly and that you turned off your coms.” 

For some reason, instead of asking why his question made Grayson angry, Damian can only find it in himself to bite out a response right back at him. “You _shouldn’t_ be disappointed that I _wrote you off,_ because I did no such thing. I told you what happened. If anything, you assumed _me_ weak and wrote _me_ off.” 

“ _Dames._ ” This time, his tone is warning. Damian, despite himself, lets his jaw shut with an audible click. At the sound, he grimaces. He should be quieter. Two mistakes in one night won’t do. “I wasn’t writing you off as weak. I’m _worried_ for you. Y’know, the thing that _family_ does for each other?” 

That dark little thing comes back to Damian’s gut. He won’t admit to Grayson that he doesn’t have much experience with _worry-_ with people worrying _for_ him. There were his servants, sometimes. The men Mother would assign to him, his teachers too, though rare. There was never room for _worry_ in the League. There was no space for doubt, for anything other than baseline confidence and obedience. 

Damian was never good at the obedience part, no matter how hard he tried to fit the role. He was too defensive, too taut and too afraid that he’d make a wrong move. 

Even here, the world mocked him for what he lacked. For the traits he couldn’t carve up out of the stone of his heart. 

“We aren’t family,” Damian says, and the moment it leaves his mouth, the only thing he wants to do is to tear himself apart. Damian’s never had a part in a family. Maybe- maybe it’s better if he never does. Never is. 

(His mind flashes to Drake, and he thinks that he won’t ever belong, that he _can’t_ ever belong. He’s already done so much bad to this family that he’s been dropped into. It was foolish of him to believe he ever could have belonged.) 

For the second time that night, he clicks off his coms.

He stares down at his hands, hating himself for his words and his actions. He should’ve just bit his lips and _listened-_ This way, though, he won’t get hurt. He can’t. He isn’t putting himself in the position to be hurt. 

So, he blinks away those tears that threaten to escape, because boys don’t cry and soldiers don’t _feel._ Instead, he flicks through everything he knows one last time and he makes his way around the house, feet ever so silent to make up for how loud his conversion was. It’s as he goes over what he’s been told about O’Reilly that he realizes he’d ruined his chance to ask about the case. 

He’ll be going in blind. 

Mistake two of the night. 

He finds his entrance in a shattered window, barren of planks to block out the cold. There’s a big enough gap between the shards of glass for him to get in without cutting himself up. Without making a sound, he wiggles through, for once thankful for what he lacks in height. (He won’t admit it, and he won’t say a word of it when he goes back and reports to Grayson.) 

(What if this is the last straw? he thinks, then. What if this is what _actually_ tips Grayson over?) 

While the floor creaks, he does his best to keep his steps light and towards the walls, keeping from what little light filters into the home. The kitchen he files through is broken down, a complete mess. There’s no working power, for some reason, but when he gently creaks on the valve for the sink, the water does work. It must be connected to its own well, he thinks. That’d make sense. 

Nothing’s to be found in the kitchen. There’s a bathroom- half, he should say, no shower. Just a toilet and a leaky sink- but it has no cupboards for Damian to search. The living room is empty at first glance, besides a reclining chair and an old, shattered TV. The couch has been shoved to the wall, moth bitten and torn. There’s an old rug, stained. When he creeps forward, something moans. 

It’s not the floorboards beneath his feet. 

Damian’s head pops up, some al Ghul instinct kicking in and screaming at him to kill whatever made that noise. He takes a half step towards it- it’s by the chair- and-

-and it’s O’Reilly, passed out on the chair, mouth open to show ratty teeth, yellowed with age. Up close, he looks different. The photographs Damian saw were recent, and while the man before him looks relatively the same, Damian still near second guesses himself when his mind claims, _O’Reilly_. He’s got an odd stubble he didn’t have before. Something in his face makes Damian want to throw up, even if he doesn’t understand it. 

This looks like a man who's lost everything. 

Damian swallows the lump in his throat and steps back, giving himself space. He clicks on his com, and without pretense, whispers ever so quietly, “O’Reilly’s asleep. What am I looking for?” 

Grayson must note the hard edge to his tone, but he doesn’t slip into _work_ mode, he switches into what Damian’s heard Drake call _mother hen_ mode. “You might not think we’re family,” he starts, oblivious to how Damian’s heart races with the want to continue the _mission,_ instead of this damn sappy talk that Mother would never even think of having with him, “but _I_ think we’re-” 

“ _Drop it,_ ” Damian hisses. “What am I _looking_ for?” 

“I love you, Dames,” Grayson continues, instead. Something rolls in Damian’s gut. Something rises in his throat. Something stings in his eyes. (When had someone last told him that?) “You might not think I do, you might not _know_ I do, but when people _love_ people, they worry and care for them. I’ll keep doing that for you, no matter what it is you say, you know that, right? We’re _family_ and we’re all we have left.” 

“We aren’t _family!_ ” Damian can’t help but screech, his insecurities too strong, his emotions to untamed.

O’Reilly shifts, groans. 

Damian goes solidly still. 

_Oh no._

He lets his hand fall from the com, but the line is still open, Grayson still speaks. His voice has faded to a drowned murmur in Damian’s ear that he can’t concentrate on. Damian’s eyes remain on the sleeping lump of _O’Reilly_ as he starts to work is way to his feet, bleery. 

If Damian tries to make a run for it, the floor boards will give him away. There’s nothing he can do. 

He’s on mistake three, isn’t he? 

“Goddamn _kid,_ ” O’Reilly growls out, and Damian’s blood runs cold. O’Reilly- there’s no way he has a _kid_ of his own, does he? “Why can’t you shut _up_ for once in your damn li-” 

O’Reilly’s eyes land on Damian, his own whited out eyes wide behind his mask. He must be a sight- scuffed up from dirt, hair wild, shoulders shaking. He must be a sight- this man is probably used to being alone in this creaky house, probably not used to little feet pattering around, not used to _ten year olds_ rushing about. 

(Maybe he is. Why would he instinctively think _kid_ if he hadn’t had one of his own?) 

“Oh no,” Damian says. 

O’Reilly surges forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3!!!
> 
> dick still hasn't told dames what's going on at the O'Reilly house, btw


	4. attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian meets a little boy.

Damian’s feet are moving, but his mind remains rooted in the same spot, thinking, _oh no. oh no. oh no._

He makes his way up the stairs, trying to take them two at a time in his haste, but only really managing to stumble around. He hasn’t scoped out the upstairs yet- it’s unknown territory- but it’s the first thing he runs too, with his mind going blank. 

It’s an irrational movement. He should’ve gone for the windows, for the doors, even though unlocking them would’ve taken precious time. At least, if outside, he could get to his bike. At least, if outside, he’d have room to _breathe._

His mind must be stuck on the mission. Upstairs might have answers, but there’s no way he has time to root for them. Instead, an instant buried deep in his chest- the flight that had been beaten out of him so he’d go to _fight_ instead- screams at him. _Hide,_ his mind cries, because he’ll be safer in something small. He’ll have more room to breathe. 

He bypasses the closed doors at the end of the hall in favor of the opened bathroom- a ratty thing with a rusty shower head. At first he thinks _the cupboard_ because he could fit, but then his eyes catch the little lines in the ceiling, the wispy string that hangs from it. 

An attic. 

Precariously, he climbs the toilet and yanks down on the cord. He’s hyper aware of the slow, storming steps of O’Reilly up the stairs. A ladder comes down with the flap. Damian swings himself up into the attic. 

By the time O’Reilly slams open the bathroom door in search of Robin, the latch is closed. 

Damian takes in a breath of fresh air once his nerves finally subside, but he can’t help but feel like something is _wrong._ The atmosphere in the attic is suffocating, built up of something heavy that threatens to pull Damian under. That, along with his own thoughts swimming around his head, sour his already terrible mood. 

He keeps moving in case O’Reilly decides to check the attic, securing himself a small little hiding spot between a crevice made of dusty boxes- of forgotten antiques from an older life, old memories locked away. As much as Damian _wants_ to spare a peek into them, his survival instincts drive him to keep his mouth shut, ears alert, body ready. 

Still, he thinks of Grayson, curses the damn man for making Damian weak. Had he been in the League, the man would’ve either been dead or tied up, ready for a bath of acid or a brief torture session in preparation for answers. 

The exact moment he curses Grayson is the exact moment he remembers the damn comm in his ear, registers the fritzy way it echoes. 

No longer does Grayson’s voice break clear through the comm. His voice has been replaced with an eerie static, his _brother’s-_ ugh- voice coming through at odd intervals. Nothing is clear. Damian turns back off the comms, resigning himself to the soft stillness of the attic, the terrible chill that settles over his bones. 

The door to the attic rattles with O’Reilly’s roar. It doesn’t open. 

Something whimpers. 

It most certainly is _not_ Damian. 

He quickly analyzes it- a child, younger than Damian, not by much. They’re afraid, possibly of O’Reilly. 

O’Reilly must have a child. 

It’s a split second little thing, just like the veering off the road, like O’Reilly’s return to consciousness. Damian is struck by a sudden thought and it loops in his mind, over and over. He cannot possibly leave this house until he saves them. He won’t allow himself to do that- to abandon a child to someone who puts Damian on edge. 

Damian’s always been good at finding the faults in people, in deciding whether they can be trusted. (Grayson can be trusted, why does Damian _do this-_ ) This man, this _Thomas_ O’Reilly- he is not. 

Ever so quietly, once the raging has died, Damian crawls from his spot. “Hello?” he whispers, no louder than the thrumming of his heart in his chest. He earns another distressed whimper, hardly any louder than the first. Because, this time, he’s expecting it, he has no trouble finding his way to the child’s side.

They’re crouched in the corner of the attic, the furthest one from the little door. Because there’s no windows nor light, Damian can’t make out much of them- other than wispy light hair and something dark staining their face- the rest of their skin just as ghostly white as their clothes. 

“Hello,” Damian utters, again, this time a gentle greeting. He tries his damnedest to follow Grayson’s approach to children in traumatizing situations, soft, gentle, lacking an edge that can cut. His walls stay up, but he pretends they’re down. “I’m Robin. Who are you?” 

“ _Thomas,_ ” the child sobs, half-breathy, but trying it’s very best to stay silent. He peaks out of his folded arms, looking Damian over. “Isn’t a robin a bird?” 

“A robin _is_ a bird,” Damian agrees, already feeling stupid. “I’m a vigilante- I help people.” 

“Why are you _here?_ ” 

Something bubbles in his gut. The longer that he talks to this child, the more he feels like something is _wrong-_ there’s a piece missing in this stupid puzzle and Damian doesn’t know where it is- or _what_ it is. “I’m going to help you,” he says, and he reaches out his hand and takes the child’s into his. Their hands are freezing cold- _his,_ he supposes, he must be a _junior,_ since he’s named after his father. 

Thomas blinks up blearily at him, blinking away his tears. “ _How?_ ” he asks, a desperate little thing that weighs on Damian’s shoulder more than any atmosphere ever could. 

“I won’t leave you here,” Damian breathes. “Not with him. You and I are leaving this place.” 

“I can’t,” Thomas hiccups. He swallows back another sob, slapping a hand over his mouth like Damian does when he has a moment of terrible, swarming weakness. 

This is the crying of children too afraid to make noise, too afraid of drawing attention while their world shatters to pieces. Thomas’ cry is too tight, too afraid. Damian wants so badly to turn that to relief, to help piece his world together just a little bit. He wants- _so badly-_ to hear Grayson’s voice over the comms, to listen to him as he feeds Damian directions on _how_ to do that. 

“I _won’t_ leave you here _,_ ” Damian swears, a blind promise he knows he shouldn’t make. Something crashes to mind- _bruises on olive toned arms, scars over reddened skin-_ and he rocks back onto his heels. “Are you hurt?” 

“My head hurts,” is all Thomas replies. Damian reaches up a hand and wipes it against Thomas’ temple- his thumb comes back wet, sparkling in the lack of light. Damian knows the smell anywhere- blood. Fresh. Head wounds bleed a lot, so Grayson has said. Damian’s not sure if Thomas’ wound is bad. 

He’d never been good at gauging other peoples injuries. His own were a different story- he was acutely aware of every single scrape he ever got. He knew how to catalog his own injuries better than he knew how to catalog his own abilities. Survival was of utmost importance in training, whereas _others_ survival was lower on the list. He’d learned how to take a man down before he learned to patch a man up. 

Damian reaches into his belt, pulls out a small pair of special scissors, and turns back to shred off a piece of his cape. “I’ll patch it up for you,” he says. “Does anything else hurt?” 

He’s certain that Thomas shrugs, then. It fills him with frustration. Why doesn’t this child know his own _injuries_ like Damian can? 

(It’s a stupid thought- Damian isn’t a normal child with a normal upbringing. He’s an above average soldier with the best training in the world. This child before him is a normal child with a subpar upbringing- no doubt filled with terror that he can’t control.) 

Once he’s got the bandage around Thomas’ head, he gently glides his hands along Thomas’ arms, searching for any blood that he can’t see. Thomas flinches repeatedly under his touch, he must be covered in bruises, Damian assumes. At first he thinks they’re bad ones, they’d have to be to warrant this reaction, but then he remembers again that this is a _normal_ child. Most children haven’t broken their arms and climbed up mountains, haven’t near drowned or fixed their own bloody scrapes in order to stop themselves from bleeding out. 

Roughly, Damian presses down on one of Thomas’ bruises in his frustration. Thomas yelps, and Damian’s blood runs cold. 

_Don’t let O’Reilly hear that, don’t let O’Reilly hear that-_

There’s not a single sound from downstairs, nothing from the bathroom. Damian lets his body untense with a sigh of relief. 

“Apologies,” he says. “We have to be quiet, Thomas. If your father hears that we’re up here, we’re done for. Now, I’m here because he did something wrong and I need evidence to put him away.” For a sliver of a second, he can hear Grayson’s voice in his ear saying, _that’s not what you ask children, Damian, especially not_ scared _children._ Damian doesn’t listen to the voice, since he _knows_ it isn’t really Grayson. Besides, he needs answers. He needs the evidence before he can _leave_ this stupid house. He draws in a sharp breath. “Do you-” 

He _must’ve_ said it too loud. Thomas’ yelp must’ve been too loud. O’Reilly must’ve been waiting at the attic door. 

O’Reilly pounds on it. He yells, something that happens to escape Damian’s hearing, but shakes him nonetheless. Thomas whines loudly, claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. “Go away,” he breathes, “go away, go away, he can’t find me here- not with you.” 

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Damian breathes. 

“Go _away,_ he can’t- he can’t find me- he’ll hurt-” 

Again, Damian says, “I won’t let him hurt you.” 

The attic door thuds open. 

Ever so quietly, Thomas whispers, “ _That’s not what I’m afraid of._ ” 

Damian doesn’t hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i totally forgot that i didn't post this along with my other fic update aaHHH im so sORry 
> 
> also haha :)) here's my tumblr: [potato-reblob](https://potato-reblob.tumblr.com/) (come send me asks! otherwise, i post updates here :) )


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